i. nkeng

My sophomore year of college, my intended roommate did not return to school, so I was paired with an international student. Nkeng was from Cameroon, in her third year as a pre-med, and had not seen her family since she began school in the States. We maintained a congenial but restrained acquaintanceship; I had my friends, and while I was intrigued by her difference (and silently congratulated myself on the diversity of my dorm-room environment), I did not exert the effort to truly befriend her. Besides, I reasoned, it’s better not to become too close to your roommate—then you end up spending too much time together and inevitably fighting or harboring resentment.

When we did hang out, we laughed a lot, and I can easily recall the perfectly round moon of her face breaking into a smile. One time I assisted her while she put in hair extensions, a laborious process that took all afternoon in front of the television. Other times, though, I found the constant laugh track of American sitcoms grating. She constantly crunched on chips that stained her long, brown fingers. When I returned from a trip, I found one of my dresses stretched out. She eventually made some friends in the science building; nevertheless, I could not completely ignore how lonely her life must have been.

Years later I ran into Nkeng in the middle of Harvard Square, weaving among pedestrians near the newsstand. We saw one another at the same time and paused for a bewildered embrace. She was studying chemistry and still had not returned home to visit her family. I was working in town after meandering across the country, settling here to be with friends. We exchanged phone numbers and said our goodbyes, but did not call one another. I suspected we would have nothing to talk about.